Pretending I'm not already in way over my head.
"Anything else I should know?" I grip the mug, needing something to do with my hands. "Do you sleep with a weapon? Talk in your sleep? Have an ex-girlfriend who might show up?"
"Glock under my pillow. Sometimes I have nightmares. And the only ex who matters is currently trying to take my daughter." His eyes hold mine. "Your turn. What am I getting into?"
I consider lying.
Tell him I'm easy. Low-maintenance. No baggage.
But he watched me shatter over my father's death. Saw me drunk and desperate and begging him to make me forget. He knows exactly what he's getting.
"I steal covers. I'm not nice before coffee. And sometimes I wake up crying because I dreamed about my father drowning, and I can't save him." The truth tastes like ash. "Still want to share a bed?"
"More than I should." He takes my mug. Sets it aside. Closes the distance until we're toe to toe. "We're going to figure this out, Isabelle. You, me, this insane arrangement. One day at a time."
"You can't know that."
"I can." His hands frame my face. "Because I've survived worse. And I've never had this much incentive to stay alive."
Then he kisses me.
Soft at first. Testing. Like he's asking permission.
I give it.
My hands fist in his shirt. Pull him closer. And this kiss—it's different from the window. Different from desperation. This is slow. Deliberate. The kiss of a man who has time and plans to use it.
When we pull apart, we're both breathing hard.
"That wasn't in the agreement," I whisper.
"Neither was fucking you against your penthouse windows." His thumb traces my lower lip. "We're not great at sticking to agreements."
"Sergei—"
"I know." He steps back, again creating space I don't want. "This is complicated. You're grieving. I'm in a custody battle. We're pretending to be married while also being actually married. It's a mess."
"A spectacular mess."
"The best kind." His mouth curves. Almost a smile. "Come on. I'll show you the bedroom. For sleeping. Actual sleeping."
"You sure about that?"
"No." He takes my hand—the first time he's done it without urgency or danger driving the touch. "But we've got until Sunday to figure out what the hell we're doing. Might as well start with rest."
He leads me upstairs.
To our bedroom.
To the bed we'll share while pretending this is simple.
It's not simple.
Nothing about this is simple.
He hands me a pair of his sweatpants because the t-shirt's too short. Shows me the bathroom. Points out which side of the closet is empty.
I set Dad's lighter on the nightstand next to his Glock. Gold and scorched beside black and steel. Two dangerous things that somehow fit.
